


The Bet

by fireaway



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Attempted Sitcom Humor, Developing Crushes, F/M, Inspired by Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV), Peter is in Denial (until he's not), Peter's POV (and a lil bit of MJ's at the end), Rivals to Friends to Future Lovers, the words dude and man are used a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23353291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireaway/pseuds/fireaway
Summary: “How many girls have you made out with in that car? Like, twelve?” Ned argues, “Losing your car will be the worst thing that could happen to you.”“How about you, MJ?” Liz asks, turning to the girl in a fitted suit, who stands with crossed arms, all calm, cool, and collected. “What’s the worst thing that could happen to you?”Peter crosses his own arms to mirror hers, daring her to take the cruelest of digs at his ego.Michelle grimaces.“Being one of those girls in Peter’s car.”----Also known as, the Brooklyn Nine-Nine AU.(Heavily inspired by episode 1x13 “The Bet”)
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Comments: 29
Kudos: 92





	The Bet

**Author's Note:**

> hi, everyone!
> 
> i've been rewatching b99 during this very difficult time, and at some point, i was just like, you know what i would like to see? peter as jake and mj as amy. so here is part 1.
> 
> i hope you enjoy!

  
  


“Up by one, Parker!” Detective Michelle Jones strides into the precinct, pushing a man in front of her with his hands handcuffed behind his back. 

“I just closed case B58-36E and arrested this guy for manslaughter. He killed his wife and his next-door neighbor using just a shower head and a bottle of two-in-one shampoo and conditioner.” She gives Peter a smirk that makes his blood boil. _“Jealous?”_

Peter watches as Michelle locks the perpetrator in the holding cell. Her police badge swings against her shirt; her side bangs flipping away from her face, taunting him.

A few feet away, sitting at his desk, is Detective Ned Leeds, aggressively typing on his computer as he logs a closed case into the database. One would think that it’s the paperwork stressing him out, until Ned mumbles under his breath, something along the lines of, “Here we go again.”

It’s not only Ned, but the whole squad is aware of the Parker Jones Rivalry. Already, most of them swiftly move to busy themselves in other areas of the building, putting several feet between them and the two detectives. Because every time the pair are in the same room together, the air seems to hum with electrifying tension - if someone gets too close, they could shock them. 

Partly because it’s been a long day, but mainly just for show, Peter answers Michelle with a dramatic sigh. 

“I might have been jealous,” he admits, leaning back into his chair, weaving his hands behind his head. A part of him enjoys seeing her like this: a satisfied smirk on her face, hands on her hips, a striking image of what an ambitious and exceptional detective looks like. 

He lets her have this win, for now. 

But moments like these are what he has dreamed about all year; moments that provide him with the sweet opportunity of wiping that smirk from her lips as he makes his next move. The goal is to catch her off guard, even if the surprise is only temporary. 

“If I hadn’t arrested two other guys while you were gone,” he delivers the blow.

Peter might as well have thrown a punch to her gut considering how quickly her smile slips - her small gasp that only he can hear and the immediate glare that follows. 

“Jealousy is a disease, MJ,” he dares to rub salt into the wound, swiveling around in his chair. “And green is not your best color.” 

His smile widens as he gestures to the white board on the far wall that reads _Peter - 89,_ with her score now updated to _MJ - 88._ The faint flaring of her nose makes its appearance, prompting him to count to the low number of three before she starts storming up to him. 

Michelle flexes her jaw, more than ready to slap away the smug look that he’s got on right now, and Peter has to admit, he might let her. 

The reason being is that she’s got a certain determination in her eyes that thrills him - a determination that he quietly admires (although he would never tell her such a thing even if his life depended on it). 

When she reaches him, she plants her hands on his desk and towers over his half-eaten burrito and carefully curated collection of assorted colored pens. It’s her go-to interrogation pose, Peter notices, therefore, he concludes that she’s going to interrogate him, as she usually does. 

“Who are they?” is always her first question.

“Funnily enough,” he meets her gaze, “They are both named Tony. And the funny part is? They’re _brothers._ ”

“Brothers? No way they were both named Tony.”

“That’s what I said,” Peter replies with widened eyes. “And I knew that _you_ would say that too, so I took the liberty of asking them about it. You want to know what they said?”

She narrows her eyes. “What’s that?”

“They had their names legally changed. They said that they’ve been planning this crime for years, and they both wanted their names to sound badass for the public to remember them by. And of course,” he mentions matter-of-factly, “Tony is a badass name.”

“Debatable.”

“But the problem was that they _both_ wanted it.”

“So, what?” she shrugs. “They couldn’t decide who should get it, so they both changed their names to Tony?”

“Bingo! Exactly.” He claps his hands together, points to her and flashes his most charming smile. “You know, maybe you _are_ a decent detective,” Peter teases. 

An involuntary smile fights its way onto her face, but in an instant, she stifles it. Peter catches it though (he always does). But if he really wants it, he needs to work for it.

“I’m the best detective, and you know it,” she asserts, and Peter doesn’t dare to argue. Then, she asks, “So, their age?”

“Late forties. But they’ve both got such baby faces, you would think they’re in their early twenties.” He loudly gasps for effect. “They’re like man-babies!”

“Irrelevant commentary,” she interrupts to which Peter huffs, “Maybe to _you_.”

“Race?”

Peter makes a show of darting his eyes around the room, searching for any nosy people, but the only person within a ten foot radius is Detective Betty Brant, nibbling on half of a bagel by the break room. So he motions for Michelle to lean in, as if his answer is some big, important secret, and whispers, “Italian.”

“Peter!” Michelle flicks his arm and rolls her eyes. “That’s not a race.”

“I know,” he chirps, his eyes glinting. “I just like it when you correct me.”

There’s a pause for a brief moment, as Michelle twists her lips, trying her best not to laugh at his silliness (or as Peter likes to call it, _his charm_ ), but a laugh escapes her anyway, which she immediately plays off as a cough. 

Michelle clears her throat. “And what did you arrest them for?”

Realizing far too late that he had been overselling his arrest, Peter plasters a smile onto his face, replying with forced enthusiasm, “A burglary! They tried to steal some jewelry from a grandmother who was out at the grocery store.” An awkward chuckle. “Aren’t people just evil?” 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows he had lost her interest just as quickly as he had gained it. 

She stands upright, presses her lips into a line, and steps toward her desk; her interrogation over before it ever truly began.

Peter studies her frown, knowing fully well that despite their rivalry, Michelle enjoys nothing more than listening to every one of his arrest stories (as long as they’re action-packed and adrenaline-pumping and doesn’t make her yawn). 

However, every detective has their preference when it comes to crime (anyone who swears they don’t have a favorite is lying), and for Michelle, there is barely any excitement to be found in a common burglary. 

The squad has their fair share of favorites, a very diverse palette to choose from. For example, Peter himself is fully committed to stopping motor vehicle theft - letting the Pontiac Bandit get away will always be his deepest regret. Then, there’s Ned, who has dibs on anything involving cyber felonies, and Betty, who favors every drug case. There’s the sarge, Liz Allan, who likes to oversee those snazzy, white-collar crimes, and Detective Flash Thompson, who prefers to stick to stuff like embezzlement. 

But as a general rule, burglaries rarely are anyone’s favorite, because they are simply not as exciting. And they’re especially not exciting enough for (and Peter swears he will never admit this aloud) incredibly brilliant, stellar detective, Michelle Jones. 

Her favorite crimes are typically homicides and assassinations. Armed robberies and other hostage situations are up there on the list too. However, stuff like petty theft or breaking and entering tend to not impress her.

“Sorry, am I boring you?” he asks, mildly offended, as Michelle lets out a long yawn. 

Peter notices a slight yawn-induced tear slip from her right eye and slide down the side of her nose. He blames it on the fact that he’s such a good detective for noticing every little detail about her. 

He says, “Next time, I’ll make sure it’s an armed robbery.”

“Don’t bother,” she’s quick to clip back, settling into her seat. 

Her desk is conveniently across from his. It mocks his own with how spick and span it is; each file filed away in a drawer, every pen stowed away in a little tin can. Peter thinks it’s cute, in an annoying kind of way. 

“There was an armed robbery at the bank just yesterday,” Michelle boasts in a somewhat deadpan voice. “The chances of another one happening within the remaining four days of our year-long bet is slim to none.”

Peter grimaces, squints at her, has the urge to call her a know-it-all. He hates it when she talks math. “And you just happen to know a fact like that?”

“It’s simple statistics, Parker,” she scoffs, picking off some of his junk that had fallen onto her desk. “Do better.”

Their banter goes on like this for the next three days. the relentless name-calling constantly coming from her end. Her chosen nicknames for Peter are loser, nerd, or dork. One time, she even managed to use all three in the same insult - He respects her for it.

However, Peter likes to think he’s above all of the name-calling and only resorts to more mature methods of annoying an archenemy, such as sending spitballs at her face or answering every one of her questions with, “Your mom.”

“Peter, do you know who’s the new Deputy Chief of Department?” Michelle asks one day. “Because there’s a meeting next week, and Captain Harrington doesn’t seem too keen on—”

“Your mom,” he replies before she can even finish. Ned high-fives him afterwards. 

See? _Mature._

Before Friday arrives, Michelle manages to arrest five perps: one for fraud, one for arson, three for drug distribution. Peter arrests four, all for burglaries _again_ , bringing the two detectives to a tie on the scoreboard. 

All the while, after each of Michelle’s arrests, she makes it a point to bring up his car every chance she gets, reminding him of all he has to lose if the bet doesn’t go his way. 

Sometimes she would ask him questions like, “Hey, Parker? Is that your car they’re towing outside? Oh wait, that’s happening on Friday. _My bad_ ,” or other times she would make an obnoxiously obvious fake phone call that he could overhear, “Hi, is this the car impound? Yes, I have an urgent question. Is setting a vehicle on fire something you’re capable of?” 

It’s all pretty nerve-wracking, to be completely honest.

That’s why bright and early on Friday morning, the last day of their high-stakes bet, Peter and Michelle stare each other down as they sit at their desks, tensely waiting for their captain to arrive. 

“MJ,” Peter greets her stone-cold stare. The slicked-back low bun that she wears tells him that she’s all business and no play today.

“Parker.” She raises an eyebrow and folds her arms across her chest. Her tone is so deathly serious that it almost rattles him. “The bet ends today. Are you ready?”

He huffs, because _what kind of question is that?_

“I was born ready.”

“To lose?” she cuts him off quickly, the corners of her lips slyly turn up. “The whole question was, ‘Are you ready to lose?’ And you just said you were born that way.”

Pursing his lips, he hears Sergeant Liz Allan snickering from across the room. 

“Very funny.” Peter refuses to let Michelle get inside his head. “But we both know I’m winning this bet.”

He points his thumb at himself and gives her his best death stare. However, Michelle seems unphased - in fact, he’s not even sure she’s blinked in the last two minutes - and he thinks that regardless of the outcome of their bet, he could learn a thing or two from her. 

“What bet?” Flash perks up from where he’s seated at his desk, with his cellphone in hand and sunglasses still over his eyes. “There’s a bet?”

“Seriously, Flash? Where have you been? Peter and MJ have been keeping score all year,” Betty asks as she plops down on the corner of Peter’s desk and steals his favorite stapler - not to do anything important like attach documents or post flyers on their wall, but just to play with it - open it, flip it around, pretend to drop it a few times. 

Peter attempts to scoot away in his chair.

Still clueless as ever, Flash looks between Peter and Michelle. Or at least Peter _thinks_ he’s looking between them. It sure seems like it, but the sunglasses are still on, and the eyes are still hidden. 

“Well, this is news to me,” he responds. 

“Whoever has more felony arrests, wins,” Michelle reminds him and motions to the white board. “Either I win Parker’s car, _or_ I have to go on a miserable date with him.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Miserable? Please. I’m a joy to be around.”

Flash takes a good long look at the score - the score that will soon determine tonight’s events: either a depressing trip to the impound or an embarrassing night out in the city for Michelle. 

After a few seconds, Flash frowns, as if he has never seen the white board before in his life. 

“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Dude,” Peter groans in disbelief. “Let me remind you that _you_ were one who wanted me to bet my car in the first place.” 

All Flash does is place his phone down onto his desk, an action that he very rarely does, and asks, “Wait, really?”

  
  


* * *

  


**ONE YEAR AGO…**

  
  


“Alright, alright,” Michelle tries to tame the rowdy briefing room after another session of her and Peter throwing gibes at each other. Somehow, they had winded up here, in a heated debate on who the better detective is. Peter, being who Peter is, proposes to form a bet. 

And Michelle, being who Michelle is, cannot resist the chance to come out on top.

“What are we betting? And don’t say money,” she wags a finger at him before he can answer, “I know you’re in debt.”

The room jeers as Michelle wears a smirk, feeling pleased with herself.

“Come on, MJ. This is New York City,” he opens his arms in a grand gesture. “The Big Apple, the concrete jungle, the city that never sleeps, the place where all my hopes and dreams go to die. If you actually knew me, you would know I’m in _crushing_ debt.”

Her frown materializes in an instant. 

“Is that a brag? Because it sounds like a brag, and that’s just sad.”

“There’s no way I’m losing this stupid bet,” he ventures forward, disregarding her comment. “So I will bet whatever.”

Flash interjects, “I think you should bet your car,” and immediately, Michelle eagerly agrees.

“Hell yes,” she says and nods like it’s her decision to make. 

The whole squad cheers, and their laughter roars, most of them already assuming that Peter Parker would never have the guts to bet his treasured baby. 

There’s a voice in Peter’s head that tells him that they’re right. Michelle is practically perfect at her job, and for him to risk something as valuable as his car is foolish.

But Peter doesn’t let anybody know that he has his doubts, instead choosing to shake his head at her shit-eating grin, among all the noise. 

“Peter, you can’t!” Ned protests animatedly, the coffee in his mug almost sloshing over the corners. “That car’s your baby. And you can’t bet a baby. Don’t you love your baby?” 

Flash laughs and pulls himself up to sit on a table. “Don’t be ridiculous. That car is not his baby.” 

Peter clears his throat, scratching his neck. 

“No, Ned’s right. It kind of is.”

Ned nods at Flash and rebuts, “See? I know what I’m talking about.” He thrusts his mug forward in his excitement, seemingly forgetting that it’s full of hot coffee when some of it spills onto his hand. 

“Good job,” Flash remarks as the liquid drips onto the floor. Ned shoots him a glare. “No, seriously. I mean it. Good job.”

The car means a lot to Peter. There’s too much history tied to it. The sentimental value is through the roof, not to mention all the car payments he owes, contributing to his ever-growing debt. Losing this car would hit close to home and put an even bigger dent in his already dented wallet. And Michelle must have realized this, because she turns to Peter and winks.

It should be illegal how the tips of his ears immediately redden. 

“What, Parker?” she taunts and takes a long step forward, sizing him up, her face only inches from his own. Her eyes are cast down as he peers up, and he knows exactly what she’s doing; knows all too well what every movement of hers means. Michelle will never let him forget that she’s got an inch or two on him. 

“You scared?”

“No,” he insists a little too quickly than he would like. But she winked at him, and it made him nervous, and now his ears are red, and damn it, he’s about to bet his car.

“Fine. If that’s what you want,” Peter gives in. “Let’s bet the car.”

The room erupts as soon as he says it. This isn’t just some bet - This is _the_ bet. His car is at stake, and God knows what Michelle will do if she ever gets her hands on it. 

She applauds him for his brave decision, each clap agonizingly slow.

Ned grabs his arm in a panic, getting sticky coffee onto Peter’s favorite hoodie. “Dude, have you even thought this through? Think about all you would be giving up if you lose this car.”

“It’s just a lame car,” Michelle says. “I promise you, he’ll live.”

But Ned doesn’t seem to think so as he continues, “How many girls have you made out with in that car? Like, twelve?” Peter knows his best friend is exaggerating for his sake, but nobody else needs to know that. “That car is your best asset! Without it, I don’t know what you’ll do.”

“I’m not going to lose, so don’t even worry,” Peter insists, “Plus, I don’t need a car to make out with girls. I can just make out with girls someplace else,” although Ned looks doubtful.

“Come on, man. Someplace else? Nobody wants that,” he responds in a low voice.

“Wait, seriously?” Flash butts in, a little too interested in their topic of conversation. “Is a car really the preferable place to make out in?”

Ned only chooses to ignore him, rolling his eyes. 

“Losing your car will be the worst thing that could happen to you,” Ned argues, and Peter sighs at how his best friend is making the situation out to be more dire than it actually is.

“Well, how about you, MJ?” Liz asks, turning to the girl in a fitted suit, who stands with crossed arms, all calm, cool, and collected. “What’s the worst thing that could happen to you?”

Peter crosses his own arms to mirror hers, daring her to take the cruelest of digs at his ego. 

Michelle grimaces. 

“Being one of those girls in Peter’s car.”

As the room launches into an uproar, everyone poking fun at him following Michelle’s response, Peter merely shakes his head with a smirk on his lips, and mouths to her, “You wish.”

Her stare has always been intense. _Always_. He knows this, because every now and then, he would catch her staring at him, either from across the room or from just at her desk. And every single time, he gets flustered and somehow forgets what to do with his hands. 

It makes no sense how a pair of eyes can have that much of an effect on him.

This stare, though, is more intense. There’s a mask of disgust on her face as she implies that going on a date with him would be the worst thing in the world, and it should make him pleased. Except there’s a part of him that wants to prove her wrong.

“Alright, so it’s settled!” Flash announces with a slap to Peter’s back and a hand on Michelle’s shoulder. “If MJ wins, she gets Peter’s car. But if Peter wins, MJ has to go on a date _in_ said car.”

Peter’s heart starts to race as Michelle reaches to shake his hand.

“You’re on.” 

  
  


* * *

  


**PRESENT DAY…**

  
  


“Oh, yeah. Cool. Okay,” Flash eventually answers after the squad finishes retelling the origin story of the bet. “That does not ring a bell.”

The rest of the squad share incredulous looks, not knowing how to respond to an answer like that - Betty even calmly sets down the stapler that had been moving dangerously between her hands. 

No one bothers Flash for the remainder of the day.

Captain Harrington finally arrives at the precinct around ten, which typically, Peter wouldn’t mind, having built up a reputation of his own for never making it on time everywhere and anywhere. 

However, today is different. Peter needs a case, and he needs one fast. A car’s fate is quite literally riding on the outcome of this bet. 

Although timid, Roger Harrington is an impressive leader and a wonderful captain, even if his stride and posture suggest otherwise. As he shuffles toward his office, Harrington politely greets the squad, carrying his messenger bag on one shoulder and a bulky lunch bag in his other hand. Peter’s leg starts to bounce as he wills him to walk faster. 

All the while, Peter and Michelle continue to stare each other down, studying and anticipating the other’s next move. When she straightens her back, Peter shifts his weight, readying himself for any of her sudden movements. 

But she doesn’t move, so he doesn’t either, both still waiting, rather impatiently, for the captain to reach his office and get settled.

However, patience is a virtue - a virtue that Peter unfortunately cannot afford. Therefore, he gives Harrington all but one or two seconds to take off his coat, before Peter bolts out of his chair, sending it swiveling backwards, and makes a beeline for the office. 

He doesn’t get very far, unfortunately, for when Michelle yells, “Pen!” out of nowhere, something goes flying through the air and into his face.

“Hey!” He flails his hands causing Michelle’s favorite pen to skid across the floor. “That could’ve poked me in the eye!”

“Good!” 

She rushes ahead, reaches the captain’s office and slams the door in Peter’s face. The captain is startled, but who wouldn’t be? Especially when two grown adults were just racing to get him alone, locked inside this small room.

Peter is tempted to flip her the bird as she smirks at him through the glass window, but thinks twice when he sees Harrington’s wide eyes.

“Suck it,” Michelle mouths before closing the blinds on him.

Ironically, a minute later, she exits the office, disgruntled. The captain had refused to give Michelle any new cases, just as Peter expected. With a wide smile, Peter gives her a thumbs up, which she immediately responds with a flick of her middle finger. 

Peter also tries his luck with the captain, but to no avail. However, he isn’t worried, for he has planned this day down to the very minute. Not one detail had gone overlooked. Every possibility can be dealt with, every loose end can be tied. Victory will be his in just a few hours.

All he has to do is wait. 

The thing about Captain Harrington is that he is strictly by the book and never plays against the rules. Therefore, it was expected that there will be no special treatment for the two detectives, and that the cases will be assigned as they usually are. 

But the thing about Michelle Jones is that she is the best detective Peter has ever known. This means that the chances of her arresting a perp on the last day of the bet are extremely high. 

And Peter can’t take his chances on her high chances.

So he had to be prepared to give it his all and bring his A game to the table. Because if Michelle is likely to arrest one criminal in one day, then Peter is going to have to arrest _ten_ criminals, just in case.

That’s why a week prior, with the help of Ned, his tech-savvy friend, Peter went snooping around the dark web to see what he could find.

And what he found would guarantee that he would win by a landslide.

A little past eleven o’clock, Michelle leaves the building in a hurry, with nothing but her phone, badge, and gun. She never returns for lunch, most likely patrolling the streets trying her hardest to catch a perp to charge for a felony - which is just as well, since that gives Peter all the time in the world to rehearse his victory speech and victory dance and his overall victory, just in general. 

One minute before five o’clock, Michelle comes running into the precinct, out of breath and slightly disheveled, pushing a middle-aged man by his shoulders. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she chokes out, “I present to you, Nick Katzenberg, who I just caught stealing three thousand dollars!” she announces to everyone as she tries to steady her breathing. 

As gently as one can shove someone, Michelle shoves the perp into the holding cell, then pivots to take in the sight of Peter sitting idly at his desk. She glances at the white board, notices that the score is still tied, and pumps her fist in the air. 

“With only one minute left on the clock, I take the lead! In your face, Parker!” she whoops, using her right hand to reach her left shoulder, as she pretends to dust it off. “Say good-bye to your lame car.”

“Oh no,” Peter reacts flatly.

“That’s right. _Oh no,_ ” Michelle mocks him, before she takes note of his impassive expression gradually morphing into a smile. 

“Wait, why are you smiling?” Her face drops, the victory short-lived. “Why aren’t you devastated? Why aren’t you on your knees crying and begging to me for mercy?”

Peter chuckles sadly and calls out behind him, “Bring ‘em in!” 

A batch of ten or so people are escorted inside, several officers guiding them toward the cell. They walk past a self-satisfied Peter and a dumbfounded Michelle, her jaw dropped wide open.

“This guy is _Adrian._ I busted his little operation an hour ago,” Peter reaches for the last man in the line of perps and pats him on the back. “ _Adrian_ is the mastermind behind an illegal arms dealing sting. And it turns out that _Adrian_ was also illegally manufacturing advanced weapons using some weird alien tech. So, I had no choice but to arrest _Adrian_ and all of his little friends. Isn’t that so cool?” Peter laughs ironically. “Introduce yourself to MJ, Adrian.”

The man nods at Michelle, coarsely saying, “Hi, I’m Adrian.”

“Yeah, _Adrian_. I heard,” she snaps, furiously blowing a piece of hair out of her face. Peter then shoos him along.

“So, there’s that.” He dusts off his hands and grins. “I win, you lose,” he gloats as he pulls out a mini boombox from under his desk. “Any last words?”

Michelle bares her teeth, answers sourly, “Yeah, I hate your guts.

“Sore loser,” he coughs out, “Just accept your fate, MJ.”

“Nuh-uh. Never.” She cringes, squeezing her eyes shut. 

Liz starts counting down the seconds until the clock hits five. _In five, four, three, two..._

And when it hits, Peter twirls his finger and lands it on the button, promptly pressing play, beginning a familiar song by Kool & the Gang, blasting the sound of sweet, sweet victory from the speakers.

With a frightening boom, Ned shoots confetti into the air, in the middle of a police precinct of all places, and it startles Michelle and several other officers who immediately grab for their guns. And when her eyes fly open, she witnesses as her fellow squad members join Peter in his elaborate celebration.

Pieces of confetti fall into her hair as Michelle stands there in defeat, a frown etched onto her lips. But the sight of her only motivates Peter to keep dancing. If he dances badly enough (and everyone knows he dances _horribly_ ), she just might laugh - and that’s all he really wants.

Winning the bet and proving that he is the better detective is only the icing on the cake. Saving his car from ending up at the impound is what actually mattered, or so he thought. 

There’s a nagging voice in his mind as he steps toward her and reaches into his pocket. Something screaming at him that this date can be more - that _they_ can be more - if it wasn’t just a big joke. 

He ignores it though, sticking to his plan. 

“Michelle Jones,” Peter says, trying his best to gracefully get down on one knee as he pulls out a tiny red velvet box. “You have made me the happiest man in the world.” 

He opens the lid, revealing a modest ring of silver plastic and a fake diamond, and smiles smugly. 

“I spent one whole dollar on this ring. Will you go on the worst date ever with me?”

She sulks, with a pout that Peter finds annoyingly adorable, but he chooses not to dwell on it.

“You have to say yes,” he reminds her.

Michelle sighs and mumbles, “Yes.”

“She said yes!” Peter shouts gleefully as he rises to his feet, the whole room filling with whistles and claps. And without further ado, he shuts the ring box and throws it to her, Michelle gracefully catching the box in her palm. 

He winks and glides backwards and away from her, trying not to slip when she sends him a glare. But all he can do is smile like an idiot and hope she finds it in herself to smile at him too. 

“I’ll pick you up at seven!” Peter yells over the music.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Whenever it comes to taking girls out on dates, Peter usually follows a six-step plan.

  1. Pick her up on time.
  2. Bring her to a fancy restaurant.
  3. Make sure to hold the door.
  4. Be the one to pay the bill.
  5. Tell all of the best jokes.
  6. And finally, woo her by talking about every fist fight he has ever been in.



It’s a solid plan. 

However, with Michelle Jones, things have to be different. 

Tonight is supposed to be a joke; a horrifying, embarrassing, remarkable joke that he will never let her hear the end of for months to come. So his six-step plan needs a little tweaking, and he eventually ends up spending over a thousand dollars in non-refundable deposits.

It’s totally worth it though.

“Oh, wow,” Peter awes as she exits her apartment, watching from where he stands next to his winning car. “This takes me back.”

Michelle shuts the door behind her and scowls. “Takes you back _where?_ ”

“To my bar mitzvah.” He adjusts the bow tie around his collar, reminiscing on his childhood, thinking about first kisses and school dances. “With that dress on, you almost look like this girl I had a crush on.” 

Peter rushes to meet her at the passenger’s door, revealing his basketball shorts that he paired with a suit jacket. He not-so-subtly gives her a once-over; a slight wince on his face when he sees that puffy, dark blue dress with a horrendous bow at the back.

“Take a picture, Parker. It’ll last longer,” she grumps, crossing her arms, trying to hide at least the top half of her outfit.

“Don’t worry. We _absolutely_ will be doing that,” he answers with a silly smile. “We have a portrait session scheduled at the mall in an hour.” He lowers his voice and tilts his head to ask, “How do you feel about wearing a boa?”

Michelle frowns, not amused in the slightest. 

“So, is that a no on the boa?” he tries again.

She pays his boa question no mind and asks, “Do I really have to wear this all night?” 

Peter folds his hands behind his back and takes a step closer. The first thing he notices is how her eyes kind of glistens in the street lights. 

“You know the rules, MJ. The date starts now and ends at midnight. Until then, I decide what you wear, what you do, what and where you eat or drink.”

“Whatever,” she tells him. “This should be fun.”

“There it is. That’s the spirit!” Peter goes to high-five her, then realizes, “Oh, wait. You were being sarcastic.”

“Yup,” she says, popping her lips.

“Anyway, there is one more rule that I forgot to mention. It’s pretty important, actually.” Peter leans against the side of his car and holds her gaze, trying but failing to come off as serious and suave. Michelle raises her eyebrows, seeing right through his act. 

“No matter what happens,” he warns her, “You’re not allowed to fall in love with me.”

That, right there, gets her to laugh.

Michelle snorts, and it causes Peter to beam. At once, he starts a tally in his head to keep count of how many times he makes her laugh tonight. He hopes to reach at least twenty.

“Won’t be a problem,” she assures him.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Delmar’s Restaurant and Bar sits two blocks down from the ninety-ninth precinct and has been the hotspot for the squad ever since the business opened eight years ago, the venue now used for the majority of their late night outings and celebrations. 

Tonight, everyone who works at the precinct gathers to celebrate Ned Leeds and his medal of valor, awarded to him for his bravery, his courage and most importantly, for diving in front of two bullets and getting shot in the butt, all just to save Betty’s life.

A quarter after seven, Michelle and Peter reach Delmar's and are immediately welcomed with hoots of laughter and thunderous applause as they walk through the entrance. Peter carries a bullhorn, courtesy of Flash and all of his weird gadgets, and uses it to announce their arrival. 

“Hot date, coming through!”

Mr. Delmar stands behind the bar, watching a wrestling match on the television while refilling drinks for the squad, until he notices Peter and Michelle making their way toward him.

“Mr. Delmar, my man!” Peter grins.

The older man greets the odd pair, taking a second to study Michelle’s stiff yet puffy dress and Peter’s ensemble of a suit jacket and basketball shorts, but if he has any judgements, Mr. Delmar does not share them. 

“Hey, what’s up, kids? What can I get for you?” 

“No need to call me a kid, Mr. Delmar.” Michelle rests an elbow on the counter and clicks her tongue, cocking her thumb in Peter’s direction, “This is the child right here.”

Peter glowers at her and sticks his tongue out, further proving her point.

Mr. Delmar forces a chuckle, “You guys look cute together?” trying to compliment them but only earning frowns from the two.

“Ew, gross.” Michelle shudders.

“I’m not with her,” Peter claims as he turns away. “I don’t associate with losers.”

She scoffs, “Pfft, you’re the loser, _loser._ ”

“MJ, you’re _clearly_ the loser here,” he argues, gesturing to the hideous dress. 

Mr. Delmar watches them in quiet amusement, but refrains from attempting any more compliments, choosing to keep himself busy behind the counter. 

Peter allows Michelle to order one drink (nothing alcoholic, because after one drink, she tends to get spacey). And as she slowly sips a cherry soda, he moves down the bar to sit next to Ned.

“There’s the man of the hour!” He bumps his fist with Ned as he plops down onto the stool. “I’m sorry I can’t stay. I’ve got a lot to do with MJ tonight.”

“No worries. I understand,” Ned chirps as he fiddles with the ribbon of his valiant medal that hangs around his neck. The fedora on his head, however, looks a little out of place, but Peter only motions to it, impressed. 

“So, what do you have planned for MJ?” Ned asks, scooting closer in his seat.

Peter glances past Ned, at where Michelle still sits, wildly gesturing with her hands as she tells Mr. Delmar a story. He guesses that the story is of how she tracked down the arsonist on Wednesday, remembering how elated and exhilarated she had been when she brought in the perp. 

As if on reflex, a small smile finds its way onto Peter’s face as he watches her, yet he fails to notice it. 

“Our first stop is the mall where we will be taking our official date portrait,” he replies when he faces Ned, who is suddenly smirking; Peter thinks nothing of it though. 

“I want a boa in the picture, to give it a little pop of color, but I don’t think MJ wants to wear one,” Peter ponders for a moment, before waving it off, “It’s okay. _I’ll_ wear the boa.”

Ned’s smirk grows wider.

“Then, we will be having peel-and-eat shrimp for dinner at a dangerously cheap seafood restaurant, and finally, we’ll end the night in the middle of Times Square, where a youth choir will be joining us to serenade her,” Peter concludes. 

“Oh, that last part seems kind of sweet. What will they be singing?” Ned gushes, but soon learns never to get his hopes up when Peter answers with, “Who Let the Dogs Out.”

For a moment, Ned is silent, his smile fading as he squints at his friend. Peter watches a whole array of emotions flash through his eyes, but eventually, Ned just sighs. 

“Please tell me you’re not serious.” 

“Ned, I’ve never been more serious about anything in my entire life,” is Peter’s answer.

They both take a look at Michelle, a few feet away, who continues to talk Mr. Delmar’s ear off, and Ned shakes his head, almost like he’s disappointed.

“Well, whatever happens, I hope you both have fun,” he wishes with a wink.

Peter smiles absentmindedly, agreeing, “Yeah,” as he drums his fingers against the counter. 

It only takes a second for Ned’s wink to register in his mind. 

Peter recoils. “Wait, why did you wink?” 

Ned averts his eyes and takes a swig of his beer. 

“Dude, you just winked at me.” Peter points an accusing finger in his face. “You just said you hope I have fun on my date with MJ, and then you _winked._ ”

Ned wipes the corner of his mouth with his sleeve and says, “Aw, come on, Peter. Don’t play dumb.”

He huffs, feeling the tips of his ears turn red like they usually do when he feels out of place.

“I’m not. That’s why I asked.”

There’s a range of possibilities racing through his mind as he impatiently observes Ned take another swig of his drink - possibilities that Peter doesn’t want to think about.

“You mean to tell me you don’t have a little crush on her? Because you’ve been flirting with her _all year._ ”

A crush? Peter wants to ask him, screwing up his face. What are we? _Twelve?_

The fact of the matter is, Peter has had a fair share of non-serious relationships, and every one of them was light and breezy and harmless. Ned, on the other hand, still lives in his ex-wife’s new husband’s basement - so there’s no way Peter is going to talk about love with _him._

“No, I haven’t!” Peter blurts out, before he realizes how overly eager and guilty he must have sounded. “What are you talking about? How could you say such a thing? I do not like MJ!” he adds all in one breath, which ultimately doesn’t sound much better.

“Hmm,” his friend merely hums, unconvinced, “If you say so,” and then, he winks again.

Peter doesn’t want to bide any more of his limited time at Ned’s side, not particularly comfortable with the implications he had been given, so he leaves without another word.

Instead, he orders a plate of chips and returns to Michelle, who is now chatting with Betty about a movie she wants to see this weekend. Peter takes note of the title, saving it in his mental file of random details about her. 

With a mouth full of chips, he asks the two detectives, “Want some?” pushing the plate near them. 

Betty gladly reaches for a bite, but Michelle merely stares at the plate with a blank expression. 

“What?” Peter asks in surprise, “You don’t want any?”

“No, I do.” She shakes her head and jokes, “I just don’t like the way they look.”

Peter chews on another chip, feeling self-conscious as he catches himself staring at the little tooth that peeks out between her lips, feeling his face burn by how much he seems to _like_ it. 

“Well,” he starts, forcing his eyes away and resisting the urge to order a completely different plate of chips just for her, “I don’t like the way your _face_ looks.”

It’s a lie, and a very obvious one, however she seems oblivious, softly laughing at his lame excuse of an insult. 

“You’re weird,” she remarks, grabbing a chip and popping it into her mouth. 

Betty, on the other hand, narrows her eyes at him and studies his subtle fluster, the way he angles his body toward Michelle’s. Peter studies her studying him, and he fears that the tips of his ears are still tinged red. 

But it doesn’t matter if they are, because Betty Brant is an awesome detective. And awesome detectives don’t need much to be able to connect the dots, draw conclusions or figure things out. 

All they really need is a hunch. 

“Peter,” Betty urgently cuts in with a frown. “Can I speak to you?”

He widens his eyes, raising his eyebrows, as an answer.

Betty quickly glances at Michelle, then adds, “Alone?”

Peter is pulled aside, away from Michelle and away from his chips, and he’s thankful that Betty temporarily puts him out of his misery. He’s convinced that Ned got into his head, and now he can’t stop looking at Michelle like she’s endearing instead of revolting. 

However, he soon learns that Betty has similar intentions when she sits him down, as if he's another perpetrator and not a friend since their childhood, asking gravely, “Do you know why little boys pull little girls’ pigtails on the playground?”

His mouth sets into a frown. “Boys do that? That’s really disrespectful.”

“Of course it is. It’s just an example,” Betty explains, drilling him with her blue eyes. “The little boys do that because they like the little girls, and they don’t know how else to get their attention.”

Peter crosses his arms, slightly offended that Betty might be referring to him as a little boy. Despite his occasional childish behavior, he is still a fully grown, responsible adult. 

“And you’re telling me this because?”

Betty looks at him, as if she cannot believe that she has to spell it out for him. 

“All this teasing,” she waves a finger in the air around him, “The taunts, the whole elaborate date. You’re putting a lot of effort into a joke,” Betty rests her hand on his arm that he only shakes off, “If you like MJ, why don’t you sit down and have a real conversation with her?”

If his ears weren’t red before, then they definitely are now.

He groans and rolls his eyes. 

“Not _this_ again. First, Ned. Now, you? Why do you both think that I like her?”

“Because all you do is tease her,” she tells him, as if she can’t be any clearer than she already is. “It’s how you flirt. It’s how you flirted since we were little.”

“That is _not_ how I flirt,” he insists, although he doesn’t exactly know how he flirts - he just knows that at work, he only behaves this way with _her_. 

If Betty believes him, then she doesn’t show it. 

“How much money did you spend on tonight?”

Feeling like he’s been caught red-handed, he swallows thickly, stammering, “Like, I don’t know, maybe, perhaps, a little over a thousand dollars. It’s no big deal.”

Betty raises a brow, and he can’t tell whether she’s judging him or is genuinely concerned with how he handles his finances. He figures that it’s probably both. 

“Come on, Peter. Let me be your wingwoman,” she tries to persuade him, softening her face once she notices the discomfort in his body language; Peter having revealed, on several occasions, that he is uncomfortable with emotions.

“I appreciate your concern, Betty,” he voices, “But I don’t like MJ. So just drop it,” and before he can question his own integrity, he walks off.

He spends the rest of the hour mingling among his other colleagues, granting Michelle ample time to enjoy the night while she can, before he whisks her away to the worst date ever. 

And because he makes it a point to avoid the two most trustworthy people in his life, Betty and Ned, his childhood friend and best friend respectively, Peter gets himself stuck in a conversation with Flash. 

There are a few times when he catches Michelle’s eye, as she picks at her dress and chats with Liz. And every time they lock eyes, she makes a face at him, either of annoyance or of pity, especially when Peter has to listen to Flash drone on and on about the numerous recipes he had tried over the past few weeks (Apparently, filet mignon is overrated, in his opinion).

As the clock nears eight o’clock, Peter manages to escape Flash’s never ending food reviews and approaches Michelle, who slumps into her seat at the sight of him.

“Oh no,” she moans, “Is it time to go already?”

“Yes, but there’s one last thing we have to do first,” he tells her, offering her a hand in getting up on her feet.

“Mhmm,” she hums, her hand slipping into his, “And what’s that?”

“You’ll love it. I promise,” he swears, leading her to a small clearing on the floor.

Michelle soon discovers that she does _not_ love it, which Peter had already anticipated when he decided, in the spur of the moment, to announce to the entire restaurant that the two of them will be dancing the steerage jig from the movie, _Titanic._

“Romantic,” Ned murmurs, but Peter disregards him, instead proceeding to grab Michelle by her hands, using momentum to spin her and himself in circles, like children.

Michelle scowls, yelling curses at him over the music.

But all he does is nod eagerly at every curse word, answering, “I feel the same way about you too!”

This is how it’s supposed to be between them: a joke between two colleagues, and nothing more, nothing less. Liking, dating, or romancing Michelle Jones just isn’t in the cards for him. 

Betty and Ned, as brilliant as they are at being detectives, are wrong.

“Parker! A word,” Captain Harrington calls him over, interrupting the dance.

He releases Michelle’s hands and instructs her to keep spinning, asking Flash if he can tag in for him.

“Captain,” Peter greets him with a sweet smile while fidgeting with his bow tie. “You look dashing tonight.”

Harrington adjusts his glasses and momentarily looks down at his buttoned-up uniform. Even after work hours, Harrington still dresses the same.

“But I wear this every day.” 

Peter forces a laugh. 

Harrington’s sense of humor is peculiar, for lack of a better word. He’s awkward, anxious about everything, and has become somewhat of a killjoy after his divorce with Tabitha. In all honesty, he is not the most pleasant to keep company when the squad just wants to goof around, but nevertheless, Peter admires him all the same. 

“That, you do,” Peter replies with a chuckle that lasts for eight seconds, before he shamefully realizes Harrington won't be chuckling along. “Anyway,” he clears his throat, composing himself, “Why did you need to see me?”

“Ah, yes. Our C.I. on the LaGuardia cargo crew just called,” Harrington informs him, while he removes his glasses, using his tie to clean the lens. The first thing that comes to Peter’s mind is how strange it is to see the captain’s eyes at their normal size. “They know where the trucks unload, and I need you to stake out the drop site.”

Peter kindly waits for the glasses to return onto that expressionless face of his, before answering. 

“Sir, I’m kind of in the middle of this date, and I cannot reschedule. I have made way too many non-refundable deposits.” He laughs nervously, scratching his neck. “I’m renting a tiger cub by the hour.”

The captain’s eyes blink twice behind his magnified lens, reminding Peter of the eyes of a cartoon character. 

“What for?”

“I don’t know,” Peter admits, shrugging his shoulders. “MJ called me ‘tiger’ once, and I kind of liked it. Thought it would be a cool joke.” 

Harrington blinks twice more. 

“Huh. Interesting,” he comments, even though there are absolutely no indicators on his face that suggest he thinks so. “Well, this is not a negotiation, so go.”

Peter holds in a groan and twists his mouth, silently mourning every dollar he will be losing if this stakeout lasts all night.

“Fine, but I’m taking MJ with me.” He points to a disturbed Michelle as she witnesses Flash struggling to dance.

Peter goes to gather both of their things, finding her coat draped on the back of a chair, before he calls out to her, “MJ, brief pause. Duty calls.”

The tension in her shoulders releases, and she exhales, eyes turned heavenward. “Thank God,” she praises as she toes around Flash, accepting Peter’s arm and latching onto it.

As he guides her to the exit, Peter does not think of how nicely she fits on his arm when Michelle pulls herself into his side - well, he _tries_ not to, but he ends up thinking of it anyway. 

She begins to go off into a tirade about her hatred for dancing, swearing that she will never forgive him for partnering her up with Flash, of all people. But she glances over her shoulder, only to see the man enjoying himself, and it makes her smile; makes her giggle. Just a little. 

And maybe Peter’s heart skips at that sound. 

Just a little.

“He’s terrible!” she exclaims, moving to face Peter in their close proximity. He wants to respond and laugh with her at Flash’s dancing. But there’s a mischievous glint in her eyes that stuns him, his voice catching in his throat.

“Alright,” Peter somehow manages to say, as he reaches for the door. “Let’s get out of these clothes.”

Michelle narrows her eyes; a small flip of her hair as she exits the building. 

“Where are your manners, Parker? At least take me out to dinner first.”

This night is just another joke between two colleagues, he tells himself, as they leave the restaurant, and Michelle starts to make fun of his car, claiming how the seat feels lumpy and the inside smells like old cheese. 

He brings the engine to life and drives off, Peter pouting when he admits, “Okay, that’s hurtful.” 

And that makes her laugh, and in turn, her laugh makes his heart beat rapidly in his chest. He doesn’t understand why.

Peter grips the steering wheel, eases his foot onto the gas pedal.

This has always been—and always will be—just a joke. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“I’m so glad I don’t have to wear that stupid dress anymore,” Michelle says as she returns from her apartment, sporting a clean set of clothes. She flops into the car and shuts the door, hugging a backpack to her chest.

Peter notices how it seems to be packed to capacity, while he pulls away from the curb. 

“What’s that?”

There’s a click as she puts her seatbelt on.

“It’s my stakeout bag.” Michelle gives it a hearty pat before she opens the zipper, fumbling her fingers inside. “It’s got binoculars, a flashlight, blanket, and oh!” she digs around further, “Five party-sized bags of M&M’s.”

She pulls one of them out and showcases it with a dazzling smile. “They’re the peanut kind.”

“Five?” he repeats, his eyes going round.

She confirms, nodding slowly, “ _Five._ ”

He drives them to the dropsite, parking several yards down the street, before he abruptly cuts the engine. The car goes quiet, the headlights fading as he twists the key and removes it. 

“Let’s bust this crew and bring ‘em in, and then, we can get back to your worst date ever,” Peter tells her, Michelle handing over the binoculars onto his open palm.

He brings it to his eyes and surveys the area.

“You really think this is my worst date ever?” she asks, squinting ahead of her.

Peter brings the binoculars away from his face. 

“Honestly? I just think you’ve never been on a date before,” he quips with a smirk. 

“Ha ha,” she remarks dryly.

“By the way, it looks like someone left that stairwell door open.” He points through his windshield at a dark building, twisting his neck to look up at its height. “We can probably get a better vantage point from the roof.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” she says, immediately unlocking his door and pushing it open. “It was starting to stink up in here, anyway,” Michelle adds, climbing out of the vehicle, eyes twinkling when she looks back at him.

They ascend the stairs, the dark stairwell echoing with the sound of their pounding feet, and Michelle takes advantage of the fact that Peter scares easily, emitting her voice to create eerily noises. He shivers each time, until eventually, he can’t stand it anymore and rushes forward, racing her to the top. 

The roof has multiple crates scattered about, some unattended plants with pieces of gravel wedged underneath every pot, and smatterings of bird poop on various areas of the floor. Just like any other rooftop in the borough.

They drag two crates near the ledge, getting themselves situated and as comfortable as possible. Harrington had said that this stakeout could last all night, as most frequently do. 

Michelle kicks her feet up onto the ledge, pulls out the blanket and wraps herself in it. Peter swallows up his pride and asks for one of her party-sized bags of M&M’s. And before they know it, an hour has come and gone while they lounge about munching on chocolate, casually exchanging precinct gossip, and taking turns with the binoculars, passing them back and forth.

“Be honest,” she fills the silence, as the time reads a quarter after nine. “What’s the worst date you’ve ever been on?”

Peter cringes immediately as he recalls the mortifying memory, Michelle’s eyes gleaming as she waits expectantly.

“I went out once with my aunt’s dentist,” he admits in a low voice.

However, she hears him, and her face screws up. 

“A dentist? They’re so scary,” she cries out, “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking she’s young, I’m young. She’s cute, _I’m cute._ ” He shrugs, because sometimes it’s that simple.

Michelle bites back a laugh, burying herself deeper into the blanket as an evening chill arises. 

She asks, “So what went wrong?”

Peter presses his lips together, reluctant to tell the story, but as he catches Michelle's stifled smile and curious, wide eyes, he gets that pesky urge again - the urge to lure it out of her and make her laugh.

He gets that urge, all the time.

“She kept raving about her meal. It was some pasta that I can’t even remember,” Peter begins, briefly pausing to peer into the binoculars. “She wouldn’t stop talking about it, so I eventually asked her if I could have a bite,” the corner of his mouth quirks up, “I think that was her plan all along.”

“It always is,” Michelle muses, her mouth full of chocolates.

“So she reaches over the table, with her spoon in hand, ready to feed it to me. And when I open my mouth to taste it, you want to know what she does?” he lowers the binoculars and turns to hold her gaze.

“Of course.” Her body faces his, as she leans closer. “I asked, didn’t I?”

“Okay, okay, okay,” he says, nodding his head, and pretends to think for a moment. “God, it was so bad.”

“Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t _that_ bad.”

He shakes his head.

“She used the spoon, like a mouth mirror, and pried my mouth open so that she could examine my teeth.” He takes in the horror that fills Michelle’s face. “She said that my gums were inflamed, and that I should floss more.”

Michelle gawks, “She did this in the middle of a restaurant?”

“Yeah,” he confesses with a sigh, feeling very much ashamed. “She also told me that dessert is _definitely_ out of the question,” he adds as an afterthought, and for some reason, that’s what does it. Because, at that, Michelle snorts, the kind of laugh that makes the bridge of her nose wrinkle. 

“Wow, you got me beat,” she says. “My worst date was when a girl I was seeing found out I was a Gemini and burst into tears.”

Peter laughs and says, “That’s just sad.”

Michelle echoes with another snort, “Right? She said that we’re incompatible and just gave up on me.”

Their laughter dies within a minute, leaving behind colorful smiles that linger indefinitely, and the two are left to watch the street in an oddly comforting silence. 

Another hour passes, and by then the tally marks for all of the times Peter made her laugh had maxed out. He lost count sometime after twenty-two; ten of which were when he told her stories about the fist fights he had lost. And although embarrassing, Michelle thoroughly enjoyed hearing them (and if she ever wanted to hear them again, he probably wouldn’t mind repeating himself).

But thirty minutes past ten o’clock is when the mood starts to shift, Peter yawning every other minute, his stomach growling sporadically. His sleep deprivation starts to kick in, having had a long week of butting heads with Michelle and arresting perps, fighting until the very end to win the long-awaited bet.

But even though he doesn’t get to cash in his prize and live out the terrible date he had planned for her, by eating cheap shrimp until their stomachs hurt, Peter still counts tonight as a win. 

“Peter, your phone’s ringing,” Michelle mentions, as she tries and fails to catch an M&M in her mouth after she throws it up in the air.

“Huh? What?” he rubs his eyes, coming out of a daze, realizing that he had been staring at her as she wasted most of their chocolates for the past ten minutes.

She mentions again, “Your phone. It’s ringing. Maybe it’s Harrington.” 

He hears the shrill of his ringtone and thinks it’s strange how he didn’t notice it until Michelle’s voice broke through his daze and pointed it out. Peter assumes he must be extremely sleep deprived. 

Another M&M falls to the ground in another unsuccessful attempt, and Peter teases her, shaking his head at her in disappointment. 

“Man, you suck at this.”

And before she can shoot him a glare, he walks away to answer the call. 

“Parker, good news,” Captain Harrington’s voice greets him through the phone. “I found someone on the night shift who is willing to relieve you. Now you and Jones can finish your date, and you can show her that tiger cub, like you wanted,” he chuckles as he says it.

Peter brightens instantly. Learning that he can still save some of his money is the greatest news he could have heard tonight, and he checks his watch for the time. 

“Oh, awesome,” he says, seeing that the time is near eleven o’clock. “We can still make it to Times Square.”

A clatter is heard from behind him, and he spins around to see Michelle throwing a handful of M&M’s up in the air instead of just one at a time. As expected, the whole handful drops and hits the floor, every one of them littering in different directions, like dots of color scattering.

Michelle picks that moment to lock eyes with him as she laughs, clearly enjoying herself, and when he smiles back at her, without any hesitation, Peter realizes that he’s enjoying himself too.

“You know what, Captain? Hold off on the relief team,” he tells Harrington - because even though sleep threatens to overtake him, Peter has never felt more awake than he does now, on a rooftop in the middle of winter, eating chocolates, and making a girl laugh, even if that girl is Michelle Jones.

Especially if that girl is Michelle Jones.

“I think we’re going to stay. Plus, I’m curious to see what happens.”

Peter hangs up, not ready for the stakeout to come to an end just yet, and he’s not sure of what that might mean.

He pockets his phone and makes his way back to her, nervously twisting his hands. 

A part of him already knows but refuses to admit it.

“What did the captain want?” Michelle asks when Peter returns to his seat.

He waves it off, “Nothing. He was just checking in.”

She nods, keeps her eyes trained on him for a while. Peter begins to squirm at the return of her intense stare. But this time, her stare is unfamiliar. Because this time, they’re not competing, and they’re not at work. Michelle simply studies him in the shadow, and he wonders what she sees.

Even if he summons enough courage to ask her, he loses his chance when they sense movement on the empty street: New York City’s finest, flapping its wings and flying away.

“I think a pigeon just flew out of your car,” Michelle observes.

Peter merely shrugs, as if pigeons flying out of cars is a common thing. 

“It happens.”

She looks at him again, still studying him, a bemused smile on her face and a held-back laugh.

“Why do you even have that car? The thing’s a piece of crap,” Michelle asks, knitting her brows in the same way she does when she’s trying to solve a case.

It’s true - the car is a piece of crap, and he’d be a fool to deny it. But Peter is not ashamed of it. He could never be. 

Peter thinks about the car and what it means to him; the fond memory that it comes with and why he hesitated to risk the vehicle in the first place. 

Some people say never to get caught up in the material things of this world, but Peter knows that sometimes you have to. Sometimes it’s all you have left of what’s no longer a part of this world - of this life.

He answers her a question with another question.

“Have I ever told you about my uncle?” 

The blanket slips off her right shoulder as she shrugs, chuckling. 

“Yeah, you only mention him like every other day.”

Peter smiles, his eyes shimmering, not with tears but with awe. Uncle Ben was great in every possible way.

“Did I ever tell you how he died?”

Michelle nods her head, attentive, and answers, “Yeah, it was a burglary.”

“Yes, a burglary.” Peter holds out his palms as if to ease her. “And now before you say anything, I know you hate burglaries—”

“Well, I wouldn’t say I _hate_ them,” she mutters as he keeps talking.

“But my uncle,” Peter sighs just thinking about him. “My uncle’s death is the reason why I have that car.”

Her eyes soften, but they’re not filled with pity. Peter recognizes it to be more like empathy, like somehow she completely understands what he means before he ever says anything.

“Tell me,” she urges, and suddenly his chest feels warm, and he feels safe, slowly learning that Michelle Jone is not just a colleague. 

She is a friend, and that makes all the difference. 

“I was supposed to be home,” he reveals, his voice steady, heart not heavy like it had been years ago. “I was supposed to stay home with him while Aunt May was at the store. But then we had an argument, and I got mad,” something flickers in his eyes as he relives that night, “So I just left. And while I was gone, someone broke in, and I wasn’t there to do anything about it.

“If I had just stayed home, maybe I could’ve done something, like call 911 or get some help.” He purses his lips and gazes at his car down below. “But I wasn’t, so I couldn’t, and then, he died.

“That’s the reason why I became a cop, ya know? So I can stop burglaries,” he says lightheartedly, Michelle’s eyes sparkling with amusement. 

“I just want to look out for the little guy,” he adds, and he really means it - the moon and Michelle as his witnesses.

“And as for the car?” Peter goes on, “Picture me, fresh out of the police academy, super nervous while also _super good-looking,_ ” he jokes, because it’s the only way he knows how to share this part of him, “Doubting myself as someone who could protect people. And it’s only my first day on the force, when I see a guy snatch someone’s wallet out of their hand.” 

At the mention of his first arrest story, Michelle’s eyes light up - always a sucker for a good arrest story. 

“I pursue him on foot. _Eleven blocks_. And when I finally catch him, I cuff him and throw him up against,” Peter points down towards the street, “ _That_ car.”

“Whoa,” she whispers, awe transforming her face.

“And the first thing I notice is that it looks _exactly_ like the car my uncle used to have. And usually I don’t believe in signs, but that, right there, seemed like a sign from him. Like he was telling me I’m going to be okay at this.” His mouth curves into a smile.

She shares his smile and huffs. “I could’ve told you that myself. You’re a _great_ cop.”

His mind momentarily short-circuits, as the word “great” registers and repeats over and over again. 

“You just said I’m a great cop. You actually said that. Those were real words that came out of your real mouth in your real voice. Did I imagine them?”

Michelle only rolls her eyes. “Forget I said anything.”

“Nope. No take-backs,” Peter smirks, earning another one of her eye-rolls before he continues, “Anyway, there was a ‘For Sale’ sign in the window. And it being a sign from God and Uncle Ben themselves, I bought it. Then, the debt began,” he puts it simply - his mind still reeling from her compliment. 

“ _Crushing_ debt,” Michelle corrects him, echoing what he had said just a year ago, when their bet had only just begun.

A wind blows in, and they both start to shiver. But his chest still feels warm, and he still feels safe.

“Yeah,” Peter whispers in wonder, more to himself than to her, “You do know me.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


As all good things must come to an end, then so must their stakeout, unfortunately.

Just when Peter begins to feel buzzed from the chilly winter air mixed with the immense sugar intake—the peanut M&M’s being the only food he has had to eat since the chips at Delmar’s—the cargo comes in, right before midnight, sobering him immediately.

Michelle urges, “Shit, get down!” as soon as she sees the headlights turn onto the street, clutching Peter’s arm, bringing the blanket with her as they both move to crouch on the floor.

They peer over the high ledge, looking down at the street that was once empty but is now occupied by a box truck, backing up to park a little too close to Peter’s car for his liking. 

“Those are our guys,” Peter whispers, quickly adding, “The _jerks_ ,” when they block his car into a tight spot.

Michelle moves closer by his side, the fleece of her blanket touching the fleece of his jacket.

“So what’s the plan?” she asks.

Two men exit the truck, seemingly unarmed - one of them even has a slight limp. Quickly, his mind plays out different scenarios, weighing every tactic and method in the book, until Michelle leans towards him, in the slightest most subtle way that Peter shouldn’t have noticed it. But he’s a great detective, and great detectives notice a lot of things; even small things about their rival colleague and friend. 

It is then when Peter gets an idea, turning to Michelle and eyeing the one dollar ring on her left hand. His expression hardens. “Give me a fake name for you.”

She narrows her eyes but doesn’t question him.

“Uh, I don’t know. Mary?”

Peter raises both brows and looks at her, as if he can’t tell whether she’s joking or not. 

“Mary?” he repeats. “Really?” 

Her mouth sets into a frown. “Oh, you got a better one?” 

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he answers boldly, pausing for a second or two to think of a name on the spot. But all he comes up with is, “How about Jane?”

Michelle pulls a face, nurturing an obvious distaste for it. “Jane?” she mocks him, “Do I look like a _Jane_ to you?” 

“Well, you sure as hell don’t look like a _Mary,_ ” he retorts.

They’re wasting precious time, and Michelle knows it. “This is ridiculous,” she responds, exasperated, “Just use my real name,” and hastily throws off her blanket and onto the top of her backpack. 

Peter moves to stand up and yields, “Fine, have it your way,” but not before he holds his palm open, motioning with a curve of his fingers, “But I’m going to need that ring back.”

Maybe sometime in the future, he could take part in an undercover operation. Something high-risk, something that lasts some months - he’s confident that he can handle it. Because, Peter doesn’t mean to brag or anything (he totally does), but he’s pretty damn good at being someone he’s not. 

Or at least that’s what he tells himself when he marches purposefully toward their criminals, with a ring in his pocket and Michelle hot on his tail, a silent prayer lost on his lips as they pretend to be a very angry, very frustrated couple. 

“Alright, _Michelle,_ ” Peter emphasizes her name with apparent displeasure, gripping his phone in his hand, “I’ll bother these clearly busy men. Will that make you happy?” he nears the perpetrators, “Excuse me, kind sirs!”

At the sound of a Trouble in Paradise situation coming their way, both men step away from the truck, immediately approaching the two irritated partners. 

“Sorry, we’re kind of busy here,” one of them says, holding out his hands, hinting at these seemingly clueless civilians not to come any closer.

However, Peter pays him no mind, sticking to his character and what is expected of him: a complaining boyfriend.

“My girlfriend here thinks we’re lost,” Peter spits out, glaring at the girl beside him.

Michelle crosses her arms and tightens her jaw. The glare she returns to him is scarier than his own.

“No, I _know_ we’re lost. I think he’s an idiot,” she tells the two men, voice laced with cruel accusation, as she aims her thumb at Peter.

“Idiot?” He spins on her without further prompting.

“You know why we’re here in New York, _Michelle?_ ” Peter raises his voice, digging his hand into his jean pocket. “I was going to propose to you, in Long Island!” he whips out the ring, Michelle acting shocked as both hands fly to cover her mouth when she gasps. 

“Where we met!” he adds on.

Her face drops in an instant. The shock turns to pure anger as she clenches her fists.

“Long Island? We met in _Staten_ Island!”

“You know what? This is over!” Peter gestures to the air between them with an animated finger. “Say goodbye to this ring and everything it stands for,” he hisses before flinging the beloved one dollar ring across the street, another gasp leaving Michelle’s lips.

“You, you—” she starts to stutter, her facade beginning to slip as she tries not to laugh. If it had been any other situation, Peter would love to hear it. 

“You dick!” she manages to maintain her cover. 

“Hey, stop yelling!” one of the men snaps at her, pointing a finger towards her face.

Michelle slips her hand into her pocket, and Peter notices it as his cue, slowly slipping his hand into his own pocket too.

“Hey, nobody talks to Michelle like that,” he warns the man, his lips setting into a thin line. Anybody who has ever disrespected Michelle always wished they hadn’t eventually. 

His hand leaves his pocket, Michelle’s mirroring his. 

“And you know what else?” Peter asks but never waits for an answer. “On the ground! NYPD!” he and Michelle shout simultaneously, dropping their disguises in a split second, as their guns are revealed, locked and loaded. 

“You’re under arrest,” Michelle announces boastfully.

The perps fall to their knees at the sight of guns pointed toward their heads, holding their hands up in surrender, wide-eyed and guilty-faced.

Peter visibly lets out a sigh of relief. 

“Nice work, MJ,” he affirms, sending a small smile to the girl he swore to annoy tonight.

It doesn’t take long for her to send a smile back. 

“You too, Parker.”

Something settles in the air between them - an understanding, a mutual respect, possibly a _truce_. But whatever it is, it makes Peter’s ears burn and his skin tingle, like a sixth sense coming to life over the possibilities after tonight. 

And whatever it is, the perps seem to notice too. 

“I’m sad you guys are arresting me,” one of them speaks up, a look of content on his face as he looks from Michelle to Peter. “But I have to say, I’m glad you two are back together.”

Peter and Michelle turn to face each other, a little confused, slightly exhausted, eyebrows furrowed at the insinuation, but they share an amused smile.

The guy has got it _all_ wrong. 

But as Peter glances at Michelle, with her gun pointed straight ahead and her hair pulled back away from her face, he must admit, tonight was fun - even more fun than he had expected. 

And it’s not because the date went according to plan or he annoyed the living crap out of her. But it’s because the date got completely derailed; mall portraits, cheap seafood, and Times Square long forgotten, and instead were replaced with peanut M&M’s and real conversations.

There’s a look of satisfaction on her face as she moves to arrest one of them, she and Peter reciting the Miranda rights, locking handcuffs onto the perps’ wrists. And it feels great, because Peter has been waiting all night to see that look.

Peter likes that look on her; he probably always has.

So he tells himself, _Screw it_ , and simply submits to it - this feeling that’s been buried inside of him for so long, but he’s not entirely sure what to make of it. In hindsight, it could be anything: from attraction to fascination to admiration. Or maybe even hope. 

That’s what it is, he supposes - hope, for something he does not know of yet.

If he wants to find out, Peter will have to see it through. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Anybody who is anybody at the ninety-ninth precinct knows fully well that Michelle Jones would like to be Captain someday. 

For now, she loves being a detective. Working as one has been a dream of hers ever since she was a little girl, because detectives were always the coolest characters in all her favorite cop shows and movies and in every book about fighting crime, solving mysteries, and catching the bad guys.

But as she grew up, she started to learn that the police aren't perfect. In fact, they are far from it, having been made aware of the NYPD's endless flaws and how it falls short in areas where it should thrive. 

She concludes that the main problem (and there are plenty of problems) is that in many areas of the department, corruption is facilitated. And those who claim they are leaders go on to employ far too many abusers of the badge and protect them with minimal punishment - sometimes nothing more than a slap on the wrist. 

They can do better. They _must_ do better, and maybe she can’t instigate any big changes in the department right now. After all, she is only a police detective in the ninety-ninth precinct. 

But one day, she can do more. 

One day, when she is Captain, she will have a louder voice. And she’ll use it to speak up for those who can’t, use it to challenge the oppressors, and to guide a brilliant squad of her own - a squad full of people who love their jobs but more importantly, who love the people they swore to protect. 

She hopes she stays in Queens for the rest of her career. It’s her home, the Nine-Nine is her family, and one day, she will lead in the borough she grew up in, making bigger changes where it counts. This, she knows for sure. 

Michelle wholeheartedly believes that leadership is written in the stars for her, and she can feel it in her bones that she is destined for this, destined to do everything in her power to keep the people of Queens safe and good and just. She _will_ become Captain, one day. 

All she has to do is keep reaching for the sky until she gets there. 

Last night’s cargo bust has her in Captain Harrington’s highest respects, which means everything is going according to plan. Her life is moving forward as scheduled, on track to getting the captain as her mentor, to preparing for the Sergeant Exam, and to _acing_ the Sergeant Exam, in a couple of years.

The captain calls her into his office the following morning, Michelle feeling giddy at the opportunity to connect with him. She walks in with a slight skip in her step. 

“Detective Jones, I’d like to congratulate you on the bust that you and Detective Parker made last night,” he greets as soon as she sets foot inside his office.

“Thank you, sir.” Her grin spreads from ear to ear. Receiving praise, especially from her boss, just feels so damn good.

“Last night was a great win for the Nine-Nine,” he tells her, mindlessly straightening everything on his desk, wanting the entirety of it to appear symmetrical. “I’m glad to see that the both of you still work well together even after this ridiculous bet.”

Michelle lightly laughs. Even when he praises her, Captain Harrington still manages to bad-mouth her and Peter’s childish antics. 

“I’m glad too,” she says. 

As there is nothing more to say other than his congratulations, she thinks he is about to dismiss her, and she can walk out of here with a sense of pride and accomplishment. However, the captain manages to pleasantly surprise her.

“Oh, and I appreciate you both turning down the relief team,” he speaks, unaware that this is news to her. “I’m not sure they would have been able to make a bust like that.”

Michelle knits her brows together, before deciding not to question it. 

“Yes. Right,” she repeats, “The relief team,” racking her brain for any recollection but finding nothing - only a brief moment when Peter had stepped away to answer Harrington’s phone call. 

“I was very impressed by that decision. It was a true act of responsibility and leadership, and I’m very proud of the two of you,” Harrington tells her, adjusting the glasses on his face, the kind that make his eyes appear bigger than they actually are. 

His pleasant surprise for her, though, is what he says next.

“I also understand that you are looking for a mentor.”

At this, Michelle perks up.

“Yes, sir. I am,” she confirms excitedly, pushing her hair behind her ears and straightening her posture. “I’m preparing to take the Sergeant Exam in a couple of years, and I would very much like it if you were my mentor, Captain.”

He nods and cracks a smile, a sight so rare that Michelle has to pinch herself to make sure she isn’t dreaming. 

“I would be more than honored to be your mentor, Detective.”

Michelle emerges from the captain’s office, shutting the door behind her, a feeling of elation flooding over. Harrington praised her, stated that he is proud of her, and felt _more than honored_ to be her mentor. 

She is closer to the sky than ever before.

  
  


* * *

  
  


There are many things Michelle Jones is sure of.

She is sure that she wants shawarma for dinner and chocolate and vanilla ice cream for dessert. And she knows that she wants to see a new movie this weekend, at the theater with reclining seats and 3D viewing. But most of all, she is confident about what comes next in her career: becoming a sergeant, then, a lieutenant, and finally, a captain.

However, what she isn’t quite sure of, is the riddle that is Peter Parker.

It was the right call, turning down the relief team, except she never knew there was a relief team to begin with. The decision was never hers - it was Peter’s. And she’s thankful, because his decision got her here, under the captain’s wing. 

However, she has no idea why Peter, of all people, would decline such an offer, especially when he would have lost hundreds of dollars that were spent when planning their date.

Usually Michelle is not one to ruminate on feelings or indulge in the what-ifs of her life. Therefore, she only allows herself a few seconds to linger by Captain Harrington’s door, where she has the perfect view of Peter Parker, sitting at his desk, wearing a blue flannel, full-framed glasses, and slightly disheveled hair. 

She starts to blush without warning. 

Turning down the relief team is not something she normally would have done. And knowing Peter, it is definitely not something he would have done either. 

Because the thing that she and Peter have in common is the hunger for adventure, the need to always be on their feet, constantly on the move. 

The best parts of the job come with the thrill of chasing perps around corners or of picking apart a crime scene for clues in one grand mystery, anything that gets their blood pumping and their heart racing. 

Stakeouts, on the other hand, do neither. Most stakeouts are stagnant or repetitive. They require spending long, painful hours sitting in one place, waiting and watching, praying either for something to happen or for the time to pass faster than it does. 

That’s why when a team offers to relieve, anyone in their right mind would thank the heavens and jump at the offer, no questions asked. 

And yet, Peter chose to stay.

Michelle takes a longing look at the white board that still has their scores written in bright blue marker. It’s been a year since they made that bet. Three hundred and sixty-five days, more than eight thousand hours ago, and in the blink of an eye, the bet is over. 

Where has the time gone?

She realizes, then, that last night’s stakeout had been similar: many hours that had only felt like minutes, as they were laughing, goofing around, and sharing stories. A stakeout is supposed to feel long, but with him, it didn’t.

Michelle watches from afar as Peter suddenly hisses, bringing his finger to his mouth, trying to soothe a new paper cut from the paperwork. She blushes even harder. 

It makes no sense how time seems to fly when she’s with him: hours, days, weeks, a whole _year_. She claims that she can’t stand him - that he’s a pain in the ass to be around. 

But if she’s being honest, Peter can be funny when he wants to be and most times, unpredictable. And sometimes he’s (dare she say it) charming in a way that she doesn’t understand. 

One day, she hopes she will understand. Maybe it will explain why this embarrassing blush refuses to leave her face. 

But for now, she settles for the fact that it is possible to have fun even in the most boring situations—like late night stakeouts or filling out paperwork—just as long as she’s with the right people.

And maybe Peter Parker is the right person to have fun with. 

“Sorry we didn’t get to finish our date last night,” she says, getting Peter’s attention as she settles into her seat. “Too bad it was ruined by work.”

He peers up at her from his paperwork, and just like that, her body is hit with nerves. It’s unsettling how one glance can cause her pulse to beat loudly in her ears and something to stir in her stomach, a feeling she hasn’t experienced since her high school days. 

“No, it wasn’t ruined. I had a lot of fun,” he assures her with a smile - not his signature cocky smile, but a soft one. And although soft, his smile is enough to cause a shift in the air between them, something kind and real that she fears is too good to be true. 

“You know?” Peter shrugs with a chuckle. “Because we caught the bad guys?”

Her cheeks warm as she returns the smile. “I had fun too.”

“Plus, that pizza we got afterwards was actually kind of nice,” he adds, still gazing at her, and she fears he can notice her face turning pink. 

“Told you it was good, loser,” Michelle pokes fun at him, because she just can’t help herself.

He laughs, without teasing her back, “Yeah, you did.”

Peter returns to his paperwork, humming along to a song quietly playing from his phone, concluding their conversation. However, last night continues to linger in her mind. 

How he had opened up about his Uncle Ben, and how she began to see Peter in a different light - realizing now that she had always seen him that way but never truly acknowledged it. 

And maybe, just maybe, instead of bets and taunts and jokes, they can learn to talk about other things, real things, the kind of things that matter. 

Maybe they can learn to be friends. 

Therefore, she decides to share one last thing, feeling slightly brave enough to take a chance, even if only temporarily.

“There’s this movie that I’ve been dying to see,” she blurts out before she can change her mind. “All-star cast, nearly a hundred precent on Rotten Tomatoes.”

She looks elsewhere, particularly finding interest in the many different colored pens Peter is using for official police documents. 

“It’s a murder mystery. You know me, I love murder mysteries. Anyway, I don’t know if that’s your thing or whatever. It’s okay if it’s not—”

“Are you kidding?” Peter cuts in, his face lighting up. “It’s totally my thing.”

The corner of her mouth lifts, not expecting the interruption but grateful for it anyway. The blush on her face, however, is difficult to keep at bay.

“Cool,” she says, trying her hardest to appear impassive. “Wanna watch it later?”

Sitting there, coming down from last night’s high and having earned the mentorship of Harrington, Michelle wonders if she and Peter will ever do this again - form another wager, bet another car, settle another debate. 

She hopes whatever comes next in their Parker Jones Rivalry, whether it transforms into a friendship or remains an unending competition, that it will still be an adventure. An action-packed, heart-racing, adrenaline-pumping adventure. 

A part of her doesn’t doubt it, knowing that, no matter what happens, it always will be. 

“Yeah.” Peter nods. “I’d like that.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> if anyone noticed, let's pretend that adrian toomes is **not** liz's dad... lol
> 
> tell me wassup!  
> tumblr: [@rockyblue](https://rockyblue.tumblr.com)


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